God Shall Be My Hope,

I Will Be Brief. Your Noble Son Is Mad.

But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In The Most Humorous Sadness.

The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe Grapes.

Every Man Has A Bag Hanging Before Him, In Which He Puts His Neighbour's Faults, And Another Behind Him In Which He Stows His Own.

Words Spoken Can Not Be Recalled So Think Twice Before You Speak.